


Repairs Needed

by Whisper91



Series: Downtime [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Couch Cuddles, D/s, Daddy-Dom Phil, Discipline, Dom Phil Coulson, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Needy Clint, Porn With Plot, Spanking, Sub Clint Barton, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1335604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisper91/pseuds/Whisper91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's had a frickin' awful day and is in desperate need of his Dom. Phil takes care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repairs Needed

Clint’s had a fucking awful day.

To be fair, he’d gone into work anticipating that things were going to turn sour, as they always tend to do when Phil’s not around to make sure people actually do their fucking jobs. But his partner’s on mandatory sick leave for another week until the strained tendon in his ankle has had a chance to heal, so everything, in hindsight, had been destined to turn to shit.

Sighing - a sharp, frustrated exhale - he pushes the button to the floor of their shared apartment repeatedly and viciously, willing the elevator to hurry up and move already so that he can drop to his knees beside Phil’s feet and bury his face in his partner’s thigh while the older man strokes his hair and lets him drift. To be honest, that particular mental image is the only thing keeping him from punching something (or someone).

He needs to drop. And _fuck_ , he needs it bad.

It would’ve been alright if Agent Sitwell had been his temporary handler during the routine surveillance op. That was their usual agreement; if Coulson was unable to fill the position himself, he entrusted the archer’s safety to Jasper, and Clint was always totally down with that plan because Sitwell was a genuinely nice guy (albeit a little bland). But this morning Jasper had been retracted from the op. coordination team to handle an emergency 0-8-4 situation in Peru, and the vacant position had automatically been foisted onto the ‘next best’ agent. Who, unfortunately for Clint, turned out to be Neil Dunthorpe; an unpleasant, short-tempered individual with whom neither Clint nor Phil had ever gotten along. Phil can work with him on a professional level, in the same way he tolerates most people at S.H.I.E.L.D, but Clint can’t _stand_ the guy.

The elevator ‘ _dings’_ when it reaches his floor and he stomps out of it briskly, heading down the short corridor towards his apartment. He’s still wound up from the events of the day, tension causing his muscles to coil up tight like springs, desperate for release. It hadn’t just been Dunthorpe’s cutting, unnecessary commentary during the three-hour op. that had left him so pissed; no, the bastard had made a point of comparing Clint’s performance to previous surveillance missions, of highlighting the archer’s adapted techniques and calling them _mistakes_ , of making Clint sit in a hard office chair for two hours while Dunthorpe wrote and rewrote his mission report and then read it aloud to him, that _asshole_.

And _yes_ , Clint had left the building without being dismissed. But it had been a choice between that or splitting his knuckles open on Dunthorpe’s front teeth, so Clint maintains that he made the right decision.

He’s feeling tired and frustrated and _angry_ now, though. And stupidly disappointed in himself, which is ridiculous, because the mission was a complete success and Clint probably wouldn’t have done anything differently even if Jasper had been the one sitting back at mission control. He types in the access code to the apartment without even looking, pressing the thumb of his other hand against the fingerprint recognition pad and letting the adjacent camera carry out a retinal imaging scan. It beeps a moment later and locks click loudly in the silence of the corridor.

“Hey,” he calls along the hallway of their shared apartment, leaning back against the door to shut it and waiting until he hears the locks slide automatically back into place before pushing himself away. He shrugs of his jacket, toes off his shoes and dumps his duffel bag of gear by the coat-stand.

“You’d better not be cluttering up my hallway,” Phil calls through from the living room, and Clint feels a stupid grin curl at his mouth despite the ache of weary frustration in his chest.

He moves to stand in the doorway to the room, sagging against it a little, drinking in the sight of Phil watching TV in casual clothes, an empty beer bottle sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch next to a newspaper, and it’s so overwhelmingly _domestic_ that Clint wants to drop to his knees right here and now and crawl over to hug Phil’s legs.

His partner’s gaze shifts away from the television screen to look at him, the quiet, easy smile slipping a little as he takes in the archer at a glance. His brow creases.

“What happened?”

Now would be a good time to vent his frustrations; to rant and complain and gesture angrily as he discloses to his partner just how fucking awful the day’s been. But now that the opportunity presents itself, he finds that he can’t even summon the presence of mind to articulate his woes. To put it bluntly, he’s fucking miserable and he wants a goddamn hug. So he shrugs, a half-assed, one-shouldered gesture that probably tells Phil nothing and everything at once.

Phil watches him silently for a moment, his concern still evident, before seeming to come to some sort of decision. He holds out his hand towards Clint, his soft _“come here”_ almost too gentle to be an order. There’s a fine line between an expectation and an offer, and Phil’s words are walking it like a tight-rope, which isn’t quite what he needs (he wants to be _told_ , dammit). But he’s desperate, and it’s a start; any excuse to close the distance between them.

He crosses the room slowly, sliding his hand into Phil’s, letting the man tug him closer. It’s difficult to resist the urge to sink to his knees on the rug beside the coffee table, but Phil doesn’t leave him standing very long, tugging him closer still until Clint gets what he’s being asked to do and gratefully straddles Phil’s lap, scooting in closer until his knees are touching the back of the couch and he can lean down to tuck his head into the side of Phil’s neck.

“Hey, hey. I got you,” Phil murmurs, his arms coming up immediately to wrap themselves securely around Clint, one hand cupping the back of his neck to keep him anchored in close. “It’s alright.”

Phil doesn’t demand an explanation from him, a fact for which Clint’s insanely grateful because he doesn’t _want_ to talk about it. He wants to bury it and distance himself from it and forget about it altogether. His body’s still wrought with tension, though, despite his best efforts to calm the fuck down. And he knows his partner can feel it – Clint’s practically trembling with the strain of it all.

“Had a bad day?” Phil surmises, his tone warm and sympathetic and _exactly_ what Clint needs. He nods, the barest fraction of movement against the side of Phil’s neck, and a gentle hand strokes firmly up and down the length of his spine. “You’re too tense. Take a deep breath for me, sweetheart.”

The ache in his chest eases a little at the endearment, dropping him an increment further into the headspace he’s been so desperately trying to submerge himself in. He obediently sucks in a slow, deep lungful of air through his nose, letting it out again after a brief pause when Phil instructs him to. He does it again. And again. And all the while that warm, gentle hand keeps stroking his back, ascending and descending in a steady rhythm that matches Clint’s breathing pattern. He’s wholly incapable of preventing the way that his body slumps like a ragdoll’s against Phil’s chest, his grip on the man’s shirt going lax as a familiar warmth begins to buzz inside of him.

“There were go,” Phil says after a few minutes have passed, his voice a low, warm rumble that soothes Clint right to his core. He nuzzles his partner’s throat, brushing a kiss there to express his gratitude, and feels Phil’s arms tighten around him in response. “Feeling better?”

Clint nods again, but Phil’s hand slides lower on the next stroke and gives his clothed buttocks a gentle swat. It’s not hard enough to even remotely hurt, but it sends a jolt through him, awakening an intense and pressing need deep inside that goes _yesyesyeswantwantwant_ …

“Clint,” Phil says mildly, but it’s a warning, they both know it is, and that pulsing ball of _need_ inside him grows bigger still.

“Yes, sir,” he acknowledges, because Phil likes verbal responses and he knows intuitively when Clint is physically and emotionally capable of giving them. “Yes, thank you.”

“Good boy.” Phil’s hand stays on his ass, resting there. “I know you want to drop, Clint – and don’t worry, I promise I’ll take care of that – but we need to talk about this first, okay?”

Clint makes a disgruntled sound against Phil’s neck that he hopes will roughly translate as ‘ _fuck that_ ’.

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Phil chides, swatting him again, but his voice is still warm, amusement curling in the words. A hand slides into Clint’s hair, rubbing at his scalp gently. “I know you want to forget about it, but all that’ll do is cover up the issue temporarily. It’s better for us both if we handle things now before it festers, don’t you think?”

Damn Phil and his flawless logic. Clint huffs a resigned breath against the man’s neck and scowls to himself.

“Agent Dunthorpe’s a bastard.”

Phil’s fingers pause mid-caress. There’s a dangerously mild note to the way he says, “You worked with Dunthorpe?”

“Jasper had to deal with an international incident, so I got passed along to the next available Level 6 agent,” Clint mumbles, and then just like that, the anger and frustration wells up again and comes pouring out.

It’s actually easier than he anticipated once he gets started, and it helps that Phil doesn’t interrupt or force him to make eye contact. His Dom just keeps stroking his hair, humming to acknowledge his words whenever Clint pauses for breath mid-rant, and by the time the archer’s done he’s tense again, limbs near trembling with the strain of it.

Phil’s silent for a moment, giving Clint time to settle before he gently draws the younger man away from his chest, both hands coming up to cup his face as he leans in to press a tender, lingering kiss to Clint’s lips.

“Thank you for telling me,” he murmurs, thumbs stroking the archer’s cheekbones. “I’ll handle Dunthorpe, don’t worry. Whatever false report he fabricated about your performance won’t show up in your file, and I’ll see to it that he’s never given the jurisdiction to oversee Level 6 operations again. If he can’t maintain a professional opinion of you, then he’s a liability to the system.”

Clint feels a swell of immense satisfaction at the words. It’s always good to have Phil fighting in his corner, but the fact that the man fights _so_ _fucking well_ is just the frosting on the cake. His Dom’s an overprotective bastard at times, a fact that only comes apparent when someone fucks up at work, and Clint genuinely hopes he’ll be made privy to whatever verbal altercation occurs between Dunthorpe and his partner. The asshole won’t know what’s hit him.

“Now,” Phil says, back to business again, and presses another kiss against the corner of Clint’s mouth. “You’re still too wound up. I need you to relax for me.” He slides a hand down Clint’s chest and curls it around to rest on his hip. “Can you do that?”

He wants to. He really, _really_ wants to. But the anger, the frustration, it’s all bubbling too close to the surface now. Slowly, he shakes his head, fingers curling tighter in the fabric of his Dom’s shirt.

Phil hums, caressing his cheek, nose bumping lightly against his jawline as he presses tender kisses along the column of Clint’s throat. “No?” he questions lightly, cupping the seat of the archer’s pants again. “You need a little help going down, sweetheart?”

Clint’s eyes slide closed, his hips rocking forward ever so slightly before pushing back against the hand on his buttocks. Phil’s breath is a warm tickle where he chuckles against Clint’s throat, even as the hand on his hip shifts to cup the front of his pants instead and oh, _hello_ , if he wasn’t aroused before he certainly is now. He clutches at Phil’s shoulders as the man deftly unfastens his fly to palm him through his boxers, breath catching in his throat as his hips twitch in spasmodic, aborted movements.

“So hard for me already,” Phil remarks, and his voice has that deep, gravelly purr to it that never fails to make Clint shiver. “Look at you. Such a good boy.”

Clint makes a choked sound in the back of his throat at the praise, meeting Phil’s watchful gaze through heavy-lidded eyes, surging forwards on an impulse to steal a hard, desperate kiss from him which his Dom immediately deepens. The day’s stresses are instantly forgotten in light of the sudden and overwhelming surge of _want_ and _need_ and _ohpleasefuckmenow_ , and it’s all Clint can do to keep himself from tearing his own clothes off in the hopes that it might hurry things along a bit.

Phil chuckles at the desperate, inarticulate noise he makes, hands stroking _everywhere_ , setting Clint’s skin on fire even through his clothes. Finally his Dom pulls back, pupils enlarged and gaze sizzling with arousal.

“I want you to stand up and strip for me,” he instructs calmly. “Everything comes off, even your socks.”

Clint’s only too happy to oblige. He’s a little unsteady on his feet initially after such a lengthy period of time straddling Phil’s lap, but he regains his balance soon enough and quickly divests himself of shirt, pants and underwear, hesitating briefly before folding them and stacking them in a neat pile on the coffee table. Phil has a rule about neatness when they play together, and if Clint’s angling for a little punishment play, all he has to do is make a mess when he’s stripping or nudge something out of place, and it’ll be an invitation for his partner to blow the issue out of proportion and turn Clint over his knees for a spanking. He’s tempted to act out, he really is, but it doesn’t take his fancy today. Instead, the lure of the soft rug beneath his feet is hard to resist. He wants to be _good_ for Phil. He wants to please him and feel him play with his hair and call him ridiculous endearments that make him feel fan-fucking-tastic and oh, look…he’s on his knees.

He blinks, surprised to find that want and desire had overridden his ability to follow orders. He glances up at Phil a little sheepishly, but his Dom doesn’t seem displeased at the impulsive gesture. Clint returns his smile, brushing his hands up Phil’s legs, the fabric of his slacks soft beneath his palms. His Dom’s legs part a little further to accommodate him as Clint scoots his knees closer to the couch, running his hands up and down Phil’s thighs and feeling his heart beat a little faster at the rather obvious bulge he’s creating.

“You sure this is what you want?” Phil asks, even though his voice has gone deeper and rougher with arousal.

Clint nods, fingers slowly unfastening the fly. “Please, sir? Can I?”

Phil takes a deep, steadying breath as he reaches out to comb his fingers through Clint’s hair. “Mm. I’d like that.”

Which is all the permission Clint needs to free Phil’s thick, hard, _glorious_ cock from the confines of his clothing and go to town on it. He’s thrust into a deeper headspace immediately, something fuzzy and warm and intoxicating where the only thing that matters is the weight and warmth of Phil in his mouth, the tangy-salt taste of him on his tongue, and the gentle tug of fingers in his hair. He’s in fucking _heaven_. Dunthorpe could be standing behind him right now and calling him incompetent, sloppy, overrated; Clint honestly wouldn’t give a rat’s ass. Right now, everything’s perfect.

And what’s more, he can _hear_ how much Phil’s enjoying it, too. Admittedly, his Dom’s always been far more reserved than Clint is when it comes to verbally expressing his arousal, but every stuttering breath, every choked-off moan and soft, breathy _“Clint”_ sends a sharp pulse of tingling heat directly to the archer’s groin, and he’s not far off coming himself just from the knowledge that he’s the one responsible for those sounds.

He opens his eyes, blinking groggily, his head still bobbing in slow, lazy drags, his hand gliding up and down beneath the seal of his lips, pumping in time to the suction of his mouth. Phil looks _deliciously_ wrecked with his lips parted and his cheeks flushed, and Clint moans at the sight of him, the sound a humming vibration against the flesh in his mouth, and his Dom’s hips twitch forward sharply.

“Fuck, Clint,” the older man grunts, hand tightening a little in the archer’s hair (Clint squirms pleasantly at the arousal that zaps through him in response). “You’re going to make me come.”

Pulling off to catch his breath, Clint grins drunkenly, knowing he probably looks downright debauched in his current state. “Want you to, sir. Want you to come in my mouth.”

Phil’s hips twitch again, a thick bead of pre-ejaculate spilling from the slit of his cock and sliding down over the swollen head to be lapped at by Clint’s tongue as he keeps on pumping with his hand slowly.

“Yeah?” Phil breathes, stroking his hair, his voice wrecked and raw and fucking _hot_. “You gonna swallow it down, sweetheart?”

Clint nods quickly, then gasps at a sharp tug on his hair, Phil arching an amused eyebrow even now when he’s clearly moments from coming (and Clint will never, ever understand the man’s level of restraint, it’s truly a phenomenon).

“Yes, sir,” Clint replies raggedly. “Swallow it all, I’ll swallow it, I promise-”

Phil guides him down with another choked-off moan, and Clint wraps his lips back around the girth of him eagerly, renewing his sucking with vigour, firmly clamping his free hand around the base of his erection to prevent his own orgasm as Phil finally takes Clint’s head in his hands and bucks his hips up to meet him. It’s still a far cry from what they’d class as ‘rough’, the thrusts too shallow and smooth to make Clint gag or choke, but it’s everything Clint wanted after the day he’s had and the tears that leak down his cheeks are just a consequence of the sweet high he’s riding rather than his body’s reaction to something in his throat.

His Dom thrusts less than half a dozen times before he stills with a grunt and a soft, breathy _“fuck, Clint”_ , spilling into the archer’s mouth in hard, short pulses. Clint swallows automatically, eyes fixed on Phil’s orgasmed-out face, everything else a fuzzy nothing as subspace swamps around him again like a thick, impenetrable cloud of _‘fuck everything else, this is awesome’_. He eases his sucking gradually until he’s doing little more than letting Phil’s cock glide back and forth over his tongue, feeling the flesh soften in his mouth. His Dom’s fingers are carding through his hair again, Phil’s lips curling into a warm, fond, lazy grin as he struggles to regain his breath.

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he murmurs, as Clint lets him fall from his mouth and rests his cheek against Phil’s inner thigh, blissed out and happy, feeling safe, secure and loved in his position between Phil’s legs. After a few minutes, the older man pushes himself up a little from his post-orgasm slouch and leans forward to slide his arms underneath Clint’s.

“Come on,” he murmurs, helping Clint stagger unsteadily to his feet on numb, shaky legs. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

He’s curled up sideways in Phil’s lap a moment later, his back supported by both Phil’s arm and the arm of the couch, a warm palm cupping his cheek as his Dom kisses him deeply and tenderly. The kiss continues even after the hand drops away, even after talented fingers slide over the leaking head of his erection and curl snugly around him, pumping slowly. Clint whimpers into the kiss, a high-pitched whine of need and desire, and Phil responds by kissing him more passionately and pumping the length of him hard and fast. It’s _exquisite_ , and he’s gasping muffled sobs into the kiss, clutching at his partner’s shoulders desperately, fat tears cutting hot, wet trails down his burning cheeks.

It’s almost too much, almost painful to bear, but Clint can’t come yet, _won’t_ come yet, not until Phil tells him to. He wants to be good, _needs_ to be good…but oh, fuck, if Phil doesn’t have mercy on him soon, he’s going to _die_.

Finally after minutes of glorious agony, Phil leans back from the kiss and presses their foreheads together. “Come for me,” he murmurs, in a voice rich as dark chocolate. “Let me see you, that’s it.”

Clint almost spasms right off Phil’s lap with the force of it, the world whiting out for a moment as he clutches at Phil and _wails_ , but his Dom’s grip keeps him tucked in safely against his chest, hungry lips muffling his cries as he’s kissed again, and it’s so fucking _perfect_ that Clint has to cry some more.

It takes him a while to catch his breath, and longer still to drag himself up from the fuzzy nothingness of subspace. Phil doesn’t seem to mind the silence, though, stroking his hand up and down Clint’s thighs, over his abdomen, murmuring tender words of praise in his ear that make the warmth in his chest swell fit to burst.

Finally, Phil tips his chin up again to kiss the tip of his nose in a way that makes Clint grin stupidly. “Hey there, pretty boy. Still with me?”

“Mm,” Clint acknowledges, and thunks his head back down against Phil’s shoulder. “That was…fucking awesome, sir.”

Phil chuckles, pressing a kiss against his hair instead. “I concur. Did it work, though?”

Clint pries open an eyelid to squint up at him sleepily. “Whuh?”

“Did it help you relax?” Phil elaborates, and there’s a hidden smugness to it despite the deliberately bland expression.

“Nope. Think you’re gonna hafta try again, sir,” Clint intones, grinning against Phil’s neck.

He can feel his partner’s chest shudder with suppressed laughter. “Oh?”

“Mm,” the archer confirms. “Jus’…gimme half an hour first, yeah?”

 

           

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had a number of requests on my last D/s Phlint fic to write another one, so I've decided to make it into a series. Again, if any of you would like to request specific scenes or kinks for the boys to explore, please feel free! <3  
> xxx


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